I ran my fingers over a sleek black welcome table, letting the contrast between my calloused hands and the smooth surface ground me for a second.
"You like looking at yourself a lot?" I teased, pointing to the three mirrors on the opposite wall.
Brooks smirked, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. "I hired a decorator before moving out here for good."
Something flickered in his expression, something I almost missed. Nerves.
"Logan tried to help," he added, "but made it worse."
I smiled. "What good are brothers?"
A new voice cut through the air. "I wonder that myself."
I jumped, turning toward the hallway where a man who looked eerily like Brooks stood leaning against the doorframe. I hadn’t even heard him come in.
"Sorry to scare you," he said, pushing off the frame with an easy, practiced grin. "I live here too. Nice to meet you, Michelle."
Ah. So Brooks forgot to mention that.
I narrowed my eyes at him, but he missed it. His glare was fixed on his brother, his jaw ticking, his eyes burning with something unsaid.
"Nice to meet you too," I finally said, eyeing Logan. He had the same gray eyes, the same strong jawline, but there was something lighter about him. Where Brooks was all controlled intensity, Logan seemed unapologetically easygoing.
And a little too flirty for his own good.
"I'm about to make some popcorn," he announced. "Want some?"
I should have said no. I wanted a shower. I wanted to crawl into Brooks’ bed and get lost in him. But then my stomach growled, and Logan grinned.
Brooks grunted, rubbing a hand down his face. "You could've told me you were hungry. I would’ve made something for you."
Something in his tone made my stomach flip, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral.
"I had other things on my mind," I said, voice light, teasing.
The heat in his eyes flared, then disappeared just as quickly.
"We’ll have time later." His voice softened, but there was an edge to it, like he wasn’t done being annoyed with me. "We need to get you food first. And popcorn isn’t real sustenance. Grilled cheese is the only acceptable meal this late at night."
“Oh, really?”
“Trust me.”
I followed him into the kitchen and almost gasped at how large and beautiful it was. There was so much counter space I could’ve taken every article of clothing I owned and folded them on it. They were black and shiny counters with black cabinets that were positioned evenly along the walls. A long island stood in the center with low-hanging lights. “You have the best kitchen.”
Brooks gave me a small smirk, like he didn’t quite believe me. "Yeah?"
"Yes. So much yes."
I dropped my torn purse onto the sleek black island, the leather worn soft from years of use, a couple of small holes near the strap that I kept meaning to fix.
Sitting on one of the barstools, I let my fingers skim the cool countertop, taking in the sheer size of Brooks' kitchen—so much space, so much functionality, like it had been designed for someone who actually cooked rather than someone who probably door-dashed half his meals.
This place was a stark contrast to the kitchens I grew up in—ones with flickering lights, cluttered countertops, half-broken appliances, and cabinets missing doors.
For a fleeting second, I felt out of place. Like I had stepped into a world I didn’t belong in. But the feeling passed.
Because fuck that.
